Tuesday, November 29, 2016

I Witnessed the Shocking Police Assault on the Protest Camp Fighting the Dakota Pipeline

The Hiroshima-Nagasaki Commemoration Committee, Baltimore Quaker
Peace and Justice Committee of Homewood and Stony Run Meetings and Chesapeake
Physicians for Social Responsibility are continuing the FILM & SOCIAL
CONSCIOUSNESS DVD SERIES. The DVDs will be shown at Homewood Friends
Meetinghouse, 3107 N. Charles St., Baltimore 21218, usually on the First
Friday. After the Black Lives Matter vigil, there will be a potluck
dinner. At 7:15 PM, from September through December, a DVD will be shown with a
discussion to follow. There is no charge, and refreshments will be
available. The series theme is REACTING TO WARS ON CONSTITUTIONAL
PROTECTIONS, PEOPLE AND THE ENVIRONMENT.

On Fri., Dec. 2 see THE GREAT INVISIBLE [USA, 2014.] directed by Margaret Brown. It is a documentary about the oil rig explosion in the Gulf of
Mexico. On April 10, 2010, the Deepwater Horizon oil rig exploded,
killing 11 workers on the rig, and dumping what amounted to almost 5 million
barrels of crude into the gulf. The leak continued without interruption for 87
days, devastating the Gulf coastline, its wildlife, its beaches and its entire
fishing industry (the main source of income for many in the bayou). BP's lack
of response to the initial spill brought ferocious criticism to the company, and
there was a possibility of fines of up to $18 billion. Brown's documentary
personalizes the well-publicized event, bringing us close to those affected by
it, fishermen, survivors and seafood workers: the "invisible" victims
of the massive catastrophe. Call 410-366-1637 or email mobuszewski [at]
verizon.net for further information

In a
remote, windswept corner of North Dakota, a seven-month standoff continues
without an end in sight. Thirty miles south of Bismarck, where eroded buttes
rise from grassland and corn fields, the Oceti Sakowin camp appears along the
winding girth of the Missouri River. Here, a story of protection, protest and
cultural conflict unfolds against the desolate prairie.

At issue is
the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL); an “energy transfer” project that would pipe
approximately 470,000 barrels of oil per day from the Bakken Oil Fields through
South Dakota and Iowa, to refining facilities in Illinois. The pipeline is
a 1,172 mile, 30-inch artery that is touted by its progenitor, Energy Transfer
Partners, as necessary to transport light sweet crude in a “more direct, cost-effective,
safer and responsible manner.” At the juncture of the Missouri River and Fort
Yates, along the northeastern edge of the Lakota Sioux Standing Rock
Reservation, the project slowly churns its way toward a hotly disputed patch of
land.

Several
hundred yards north of the camp, a lone bridge has come to define the front
line of this conflict. On one side, the West Dakota SWAT Team stands watch over
the DAPL’s border. On the other, two young Lakota men are charged with
maintaining order among the camp’s curious and defiant. In between rest the
carcasses of burned-out trucks, which several tribal “water protectors” torched
in response to the past few days of skirmishes that had culminated in a volley
of tear gas and rubber-bullets. A concrete barrier topped with barbed wire and
decorated with vulgar graffiti exemplifies the air of tension.

The
stand-off has given way to violence and threats of violence, here and well
beyond the borders of the Standing Rock Reservation. While law enforcement and
the water protectors engage in a guarded choreography, fear strikes in the
vulnerable hamlets that dot the plains. Across the prairie, the pipeline
dispute has resurrected age-old enmity between the native peoples and those
they perceive to have permanently occupied the territory of native birthright.

Normally,
by mid-November the ground here would be frozen with knee-deep drifts of
Midwest snow. Today, however, the temperature will rise into the mid-60s with
almost balmy comfort.

“This is
what I call the upside of global warming,” jokes Ken Many Wounds. “Or, perhaps
Great Spirit is looking out for us.” A member of the Standing Rock Lakota
Sioux, Ken is an organizer and the camp’s communications director. His
authority is confirmed by the company he keeps with the core leaders of the
action. Ken is an imposing figure. He has rugged features and strides with a
cowboy’s gait as his long wiry ponytail flows from beneath a baseball cap. Ken
bristles at the term “protesters” and admonishes that those opposing the DAPL are
“water protectors.”

Versed in
the complex history of Sioux land disputes, Ken explains the intricacies of
treaties, land grabsand the exceptions within exceptions that have chipped away
at the territory of the Sioux Nation for over 150 years. “Where we stand is
Sioux land, according to the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851,” he says, adding that
the subsequent Sioux Treaty of 1868, which the Sioux allege to have never been
properly ratified, illegally redefined the borders of Sioux territory. At best,
the state of ownership and land rights is nothing short of confused.

Indians and
non-Indians mill around nearby, executing various tasks in the maintenance of
the protest camp’s daily life. The aroma of wood fires and beef stewing in cast
iron kettles fills the air. The setting sun casts a shadowy skyline of tents,
tepees and converted buses, all gathered to push back at the slow, oncoming
creep of the pipeline. The camp ebbs and flows in population, retaining about
6,000 inhabitants, and pushing hundreds of yards to the swampy tributaries
flowing into the Missouri.

In the
distance, a drilling pad pushes closer to the river with the ultimate goal of
tunneling beneath it. In the process, the excavation will cut through burial
grounds. Distrust of the project has intensified over allegations that
non-Indian archaeologists from the North Dakota State Historic Preservation
Office have been exclusively charged with identifying native graves. Equally,
there is concern as to what will occur should the pipeline breach below the
Missouri’s pristine waters.

On these
two issues, there is an odd chorus of consensus bridging what is otherwise a de
facto apartheid in this small corner of the world. On and off the reservation,
the welfare of the Missouri River provokes ready conversation.

“We don’t
want that pipeline coming through here,” explains a woman named Terrie in
Mandan, a town of roughly 20,000 inhabitants just west of Bismarck and 30 miles
north of the standing Rock Reservation. Her youthful face softens as her
distrust of me thaws. “If that pipeline ruptures, it will be the end of the
Missouri. That’s going to effect millions of people down-river.”

But, just
as quickly as Terrie is to condemn the pipeline, her teenage daughter shows me
photos of vandalism in the nearby veteran’s graveyard. The agitated teen
exclaims, “Look! Look at this. These pipeline protesters went and put a Tonka
truck in the veteran’s graveyard with a sign that says ‘Let’s start drilling
here’!”

Terrie is
angry. “Leave our veterans alone,” she says. “Why would you desecrate their
graves? They have nothing to do with this.”

It’s hard
not to be taken in by the women’s congenial earthiness. On the other hand, the
irony of their sensitivity to a distasteful prank, and the simultaneous
indifference to the impact on Native American burial grounds, is inescapable.
Here, the contempt for Native Americans is palpable and ubiquitous. “They get
handouts and they are taken care of by the government,” Terrie adds. “They
don’t have to work for any of it.”

As much as
there is division between races, there is also dissent within. Earlier in the
day, a group from Standing Rock led a march to Mandan’s municipal offices.
Working on a theme of forgiveness, love and peace, the group prayed for a
cleansing of what they claim are the hatred and offenses of both sides of the
conflict that occurred in the preceding weeks. Those actions led to the arrest
and detention of Lakota Sioux who continued to languish in the Morton County
Correctional Center in Mandan.

The march
was in stark contrast to the more extreme “direct action” principles undertaken
by elements within the camp. In silence, the demonstrators encircled the jail
and courthouse and pleaded for the release of their brethren. It was a display
of the diverse beliefs and tactics emerging from the reservation; the hawks and
the doves form a division so easily overlooked on the erroneous assumption of a
monolithic Lakota Sioux culture and a unified stance in the face of adversity.

On my way
back to Standing Rock, I stop at Rusty’s Saloon in St. Anthony, a village half
way between Mandan and the reservation. It is a clean and orderly establishment
constructed as a lodge, and decorated with taxidermied wildlife.

The place is
awash in camos and blaze orange as hunters gather for lunch. I take a seat
alongside a regular who eyes me with suspicion. Lori, the barmaid, senses my
apprehension and relaxes the atmosphere with some easy talk. I oblige and the
conversation soon deepens.

Before
long, she voices concern about threats to local farmers, the killing of
livestock and a plethora of fires and vandalism alleged to have been
perpetrated by Indians. According to Lori, the acts are the product of a native
reawakening of land rights and a history of intrusion. “Our children had to
have an armed escort to school because of the threats over this pipeline,” Lori
adds. “People here are just plain scared.”

These and
other conversations reveal that, while there is agreement as to issues between
those on and off the reservation, opinions are very much in cadence with peer
allegiances and along the cultural divide.

The
dialogue of race is different here. In contrast to the low rumble of urban
settings, race-based hatred in rural North Dakota is immediately explosive. The
conversations with non-Indians are rife with animus toward Indians and
outsiders. Likewise, the indigenous population, on and off the reservation,
offers little more warmth. There is a noticeable lack of eye contact with
non-Indians and the almost obligatory dirty looks cast at the “was’ichu,” (the
somewhat derogatory Lakota word for “white” and non-Indian). The culture is
understandably steeped in historic distrust.

Back at the
camp, three young people bide their time waiting for a march to the front
lines. Today, the Standing Rock Youth Council will take an offering to those
manning the SWAT vehicles. The Youth Council is a contingent of the
reservation’s younger generation that is guided by the mantra of “removing the
invisible barriers that prevent our native youth from succeeding.” They are
steadfast in support of the water protection action. Today, they will push to
the front lines in peaceful offering to the men bearing arms and armor just
beyond the barbed wire.

I am
confronted by the stoicism of two visiting tribal members from Michigan, and of
Maria, a young woman affiliated with several North Dakota tribes. “This is not
a conflict zone,” Maria explains. “It’s not a war zone. We don’t want it to be
seen that way.”

Maria is
correct. While tear gas and rubber bullets have been unleashed in the course of
the DAPL conflict, the people of Standing Rock show no interest in having their
actions seen as being at war with the outside world. This erroneous
characterization, spawned by the mainstream media, has drawn an array of
characters to Standing Rock — Indian and non-Indian, each seeking to make the
action their own. I find myself having to fight my way through throngs of
posers and protesters to get to the core Native American water protectors who
are truly sincere in their actions.

Likewise,
within the Indian community, as in any community, I discover a great variance
of identity and adherence to the mores of Indian culture. Maria points to her
companion, “Me Shet Nagle,” a visiting member of the Blackfeet Nation, and
chides, “He doesn’t even know what his name means! For all he knows, he could
be named after a sock!”

Me Shet
Nagle meets Maria’s playful contempt with a sheepish grin. I jokingly assure
that they will be portrayed in the most stereotypical manner possible. They get
the humor. We all get it; the revelation of the Native American as a diverse
culture with all of the beauty, humor, internal conflict and struggle for
identity as any other.

Tension
builds as the time to march draws near. Dozens of water protectors assemble
across the bridge from the barricade. Members of the SWAT team can be seen
readying themselves in the distance. The bridge is disputed territory. Leaders
from the Youth Council cradle a sacred pipe and carry an offering of the
life-giving water that is threatened by the DAPL. In silence, dozens march on
toward the front line.

Within
yards of the barricade, the council motions for all marchers to be seated.
People pray. Some look woefully onward, expecting plumes of tear gas. Cameras
click away over the crowd. Among this throng, a young woman carries an infant
wrapped in a thick wool blanket. The group is completely vulnerable. I glance
over the edge of the bridge and quickly calculate a two-story drop to the
freezing water of unknown depth. If things went as they have before,
pandemonium could break out with any incoming projectiles.

The leaders
of the Youth Council disappear behind the burned-out trucks. A number of
heavily armored police and military appear from behind the barricade to take
stock of the crowd. They peer from behind dark goggles beneath Kevlar helmets,
adorned in heavy flak vests, with weapons slung at the ready.

The moments
linger.

Finally,
the Youth Council members emerge. They slowly walk to the crowd and command
that everyone rise and move forward. In unified mass movement, the marchers
close another 10 yards toward the barricade and the tension heightens. The
council leaders sternly motion directions and, again, everyone is seated. The
marchers are entirely under the Youth Council’s control.

“We offered
them water,” one leader reports as he raise a mason jar. “They would not drink
from it!” A murmur spreads across the crowd. “However,” the leader continues,
“they prayed with us.” His words are slow and punctuated with the tension of
the moment. “We prayed together and, while they would not drink the water, the
men did accept our water and rubbed it about their uniforms in a showing of
respect and solidarity.”

After a
long pause, a Lakota woman seated before me raises a rattle in the air and
shakes it with a cry of approval. One by one, hands rise and a cheer of praise
breaks the quiet. The armed troops’ act of personal solidarity and sensitivity
was all they asked for. In modest triumph, the marchers make their way back
across the bridge in humble silence and with a renewed hope.

In the
distance, the machines churn on.

Tony
Zinnanti is a lawyer, freelance journalist and photographer from Los Angeles.

"The master class
has always declared the wars; the subject class has always fought the battles.
The master class has had all to gain and nothing to lose, while the subject
class has had nothing to gain and everything to lose--especially their lives."
Eugene Victor Debs